| |
| GRANDMITHER, think not I forget, when I come back to town, | |
| An’ wander the old ways again an’ tread them up an’ down. | |
| I never smell the clover bloom, nor see the swallows pass, | |
| Without I mind how good ye were unto a little lass. | |
| I never hear the winter rain a-pelting all night through, | 5 |
| Without I think and mind me of how cold it falls on you. | |
| And if I come not often to your bed beneath the thyme, | |
| Mayhap ’t is that I ’d change wi’ ye, and gie my bed for thine, | |
| Would like to sleep in thine. | |
| |
| I never hear the summer winds among the roses blow, | 10 |
| Without I wonder why it was ye loved the lassie so. | |
| Ye gave me cakes and lollipops and pretty toys a score,— | |
| I never thought I should come back and ask ye now for more. | |
| Grandmither, gie me your still, white hands, that lie upon your breast, | |
| For mine do beat the dark all night and never find me rest; | 15 |
| They grope among the shadows an’ they beat the cold black air, | |
| They go seekin’ in the darkness, an’ they never find him there, | |
| An’ they never find him there. | |
| |
| Grandmither, gie me your sightless eyes, that I may never see | |
| His own a-burnin’ full o’ love that must not shine for me. | 20 |
| Grandmither, gie me your peaceful lips, white as the kirkyard snow, | |
| For mine be red wi’ burnin’ thirst an’ he must never know. | |
| Grandmither, gie me your clay-stopped ears, that I may never hear | |
| My lad a-singin’ in the night when I am sick wi’ fear; | |
| A-singin’ when the moonlight over a’ the land is white— | 25 |
| Oh God! I ’ll up an’ go to him a-singin’ in the night, | |
| A-callin’ in the night. | |
| |
| Grandmither, give me your clay-cold heart that has forgot to ache, | |
| For mine be fire within my breast and yet it cannot break. | |
| It beats an’ throbs forever for the things that must not be,— | 30 |
| An’ can ye not let me creep in an’ rest awhile by ye? | |
| A little lass afeared o’ dark slept by ye years agone— | |
| Ah, she has found what night can hold ’twixt sunset an’ the dawn! | |
| So when I plant the rose an’ rue above your grave for ye, | |
| Ye ’ll know it ’s under rue an’ rose that I would like to be, | 35 |
| That I would like to be. | |
| |
